Chapter Eighteen

The night is lonely without companionship, the distant howling of wolves somehow my only comfort in the shadows. Scruffy, too, patrols the darkness, his nose puffing away at the ground to sniff out anything threatening that may be invisible to me. Every now and then, his cinnamon pelt passes beneath a teardrop of starlight, illuminating the coppery eyes he searches the darkness with. The few patches of swirling blossoms left in fly into the air, tracing his path over the hillside to a disturbing distance.

I am alone aside from the meandering wolf and the snores of the sleeping people around me. Raffe lies on his side away from the rest of the group – he keeps himself a fair distance from Bryon's peaceful slumbering form, as if there's an invisible line drawn between them. Ogden, though, clearly disregards any such line, sprawled ungracefully between the two of them. Around his feet, a sleepy Hugo curls, snoring softly.

Hugo had done business with Daisy, and she'd departed with new goods – the sword as well as the on-sale angel shield. In return, Hugo had only asked for something he'd called Life Insurance.

"It's a difficult time," he'd pressed, cocking both eyebrows, leaning forward and smiling mysteriously at Daisy, sickly gaze both alarming and trustworhy. "People are getting their throats slitted and angels are raining from the sky like toads. It soothes my nerves, knowing that there's a badass wife to avenge me, should the worst happen."

I shiver in the moonlight from atop my perch on a star-kissed boulder. Curling in a tighter ball around myself, I allow my vision to dart about the countryside, searching for any sign of disarray. Up until now, it hadn't been boring – in this forest, there always seems to be something happening. Whether it's the flocks of winged snakes winding silently through the sky above us or the appearance of a small brigade of fallen angels coasting over the mountain and sending flowers into the air, something always happened – there was never a dull moment.

But now, I can feel the austere silence boring into my patience. Bryon had pointed out exactly where the moon would lounge in the star-studded sky when it was time for Raffe's watch, and now, the ivory orb sits only a fraction away from where it must lay.

We'd crashed not long after Raffe's freak-out – Bryon hadn't been in the best of situations, and Raffe in himself seemed pretty exhausted, eager for a brain-break. Luckily, they'd both been able to drag their feet to a suitable location to set up camp before they both hit the sack. Hugo crashed on the way here while getting a lift from his wolf, his snores buried deep into Scruffy's mane, his hands dangling lifelessly. I'd been elected to stand watch first, since I was the only one even mildly coherent.

But now, at the start of the haunting hours of the night when all the shadows seem to come alive, I don't feel very happy about it. I'm gleeful by the time the moon reaches the correct position, hanging over two ridges on the horizon. Vaulting down from my placement on the boulder's crown, I stalk as silently as possible through the camp, weaving through obstacles, up to Raffe's slumbering figure.

For half a second, I analyze the rise and fall of his breath, watching the faint quiver of his hair in the bitterly nipping wind. His face is still, the chiseled features maintaining a shadow of their lucid glory. Archangel Raphael.

Leaning forward, I gingerly tap his shoulder.

Almost before I touch him, his eyes slide open. Preparedness and unsurprised greeting meet me. There are no awkward grunting noises to signify that he's only just now arising – it seems to me that he's already awake.

"Did I wake you?" I whisper, eyebrows rising skeptically, lips hardening into a straight line.

Raffe sighs in hushed defeat, closing his eyes for a millisecond more. "No. But sitting here and thinking has been nice. My turn for watch?"

"Mmm-hmm. You might want to do another check of the surrounding areas again – I mean, I know that Scruffy's padding around out there, but I trust you more than I trust that wolf."

"That's because angels are very trustworthy creatures," Raffe grunts as he flips onto his stomach, "and wolves often mislead naïve young maidens." Pushing up off the ground, Raffe adds, "Also, Seraphim are very superficial. Don't trust Seraphim. That's why they've got so many wings, they're full of secrets."

"Sure." I roll my eyes at him, attempting to ignore the mussed turmoil of his hair and the way it falls into his face, like ebony blood seeping into the blue pools. "Just keep an eye out for those wolves, you hear them? They started howling after you first lost your cool, and they're getting loud again."

Raffe salutes mockingly, his black eyebrows playfully raised. "Whatever you say, my Evil Queen."

And, teasing expression still dominating his face, Raffe strides off, into the embrace of darkness, shielded from my vision by the shadows.

As the planes of his back melt into the blackness, I turn back to the mess on the ground, studying all the slumbering figures once more. On any other occasion, I would sleep with Paige curled up against me in the crook of my body separate from the rest of the party, but she has found comfort with another. My baby girl's lying on Bryon's stomach, her head at his shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck. With each of his deep breaths, she bobs up and down, as if nodding to me.

I suppose there isn't a real reason I still can't sleep beside Paige.

Uncertainly, I shuffle over to Bryon, staring down at his peaceful face. Unlike many people, his slumbering features don't hold the dramatic difference from awake to asleep. The same tranquility remains, a stencil of overwhelming serenity – though his face is absent of the amused smiles pulling at his handsome lips or his eyes which twinkle and gleam so wisely in the light, the sense of balance hasn't change. If I had to decide, I would describe him as still being contented.

I pray that I won't disturb his assumption of calm as I settle down beside him. To keep him comfortable, I allow a fair amount of space between my uncle and I.

Nuzzling a bed into the soft grasses and mosses, I coil up in on myself, turned away from Bryon so that my back should warm slightly. The winter's coming wrath already is slinking into the land, released onto us by the stars above. A shiver rocks my body, chills creeping up my arms like millions of many monsters pricking me with the tips of their frigid fangs.

Sighing, I release a breath into the air, watching as it dissolves into the sky. Shutting my eyes, I hug myself a bit tighter, ignoring the ice-cold ground and damp foliage. As I lay quivering, surrounded by the frozen blades of grass and volatile winds, sudden comprehension for Raffe's sleeplessness comes upon me – once I reach sleep's gentle embrace, the cold's talons will no longer be able to sink into my skin, but for the time being, the inescapable winter's coy breath still plays with my hair.

Something stirs, movement over the algid grass. A warm arm wraps around me, gently pulling me from my makeshift bed, cradling me against a heated body. Instead of being carried by the blades of frozen weeds, now, I find comfort on a familiar cloak's fabric. Groaning softly, I turn over onto my other side, finding my face staring into Bryon's ribcage. Readjusting until my head is pillowed on his shoulder, I struggle to find a more comfortable position for the two of us.

The magnanimous gleam of his bronze eyes shimmer in the darkness, black pupils trained on me with familial warmth melting there. The wisdom and laughter that his slumbering face had been lacking reappear as he guards me against the cold, imbued with a sense of security.

A candid mixture of the same security and awkwardness fills my stomach. Being cuddled against Bryon makes me feel safe, harbored against the cold, warming my head to my toes. But the presence of awkwardness is not far – true, he is my uncle, but he is clutching me against him like a precious stuffed doll. Though for all I know, that is what a family does. Paige certainly finds no hesitation in curling up beside Bryon – should I not, either?

Blanketed by his emanating warmth, I allow myself to drift into the arms of sleep. Though the scaly fingers of the ice attempt to pry me from the warm coma I've entered, Bryon's amorous arms are a shield from all harmful enemies. With every lethargic thud of his sleepy heart, I feel myself lulled deeper into sleep, happy in my uncle's protection.

I probably would've fallen asleep there, carried completely into the sea of dreams. I probably would've woken up the next morning yawning and stretching, cracking my neck to be rid of the odd sensation in my bones. I probably would've kissed my little sister on the nose and held her hand as Ogden dished out breakfast, whistling all the while.

Unfortunately, though, peace does not often correlate with reality.

A rabid snarl of anger rips me from my sleep. Jolting awake, I untangle from Bryon's groggy arms, sitting up straight. Before I even fully acknowledge my situation, a cold stone forms at the bottom of my stomach, an icy fist gripping my heart mercilessly. Upon glimpsing the threat, the issuer of the feral growl, my heart plummets.

Raffe studies my sleeping position alongside Bryon with truculent eyes and viciously bared teeth. His fists clench and unclench by his sides in the same rhythm that his wings furiously fold and unfold, scythes gleaming wickedly in the starlight.

"Raffe –" I whisper, struggling to right myself, to explain to him that it's not what it appears to be.

Raffe doesn't respond to me in any way, agitatedly pivoting on heel and stalking into the forest. The anger carving his terse posture sends my initially still heart racing, bringing bouts of worry upon me. From the moment Raffe exits my line of vision, I struggle to stand, kicking my feet awake and blinking my eyes rapidly.

Shivering against the sudden cold I am immersed in the second I exit Bryon's embrace, I start after Raffe, contemplating the sense of calling out his name.

"Penryn," Bryon calls softly from his position on the ground.

Cautiously, I turn my head about, pausing to hear what he may advise.

His bronze gaze is level, his fingers rubbing circles on Paige's back to lull her back to sleep. "Say whatever you have to."

The enormity of what he says drops on my shoulders a few seconds after his statement – I can tell him whatever Bryon has told me, tell him whatever was supposed to remain between the two of us. With that realization, I gasp audibly into the cold air – my uncle has granted me clearance on anything I wish to say.

With this thought reeling in my mind, I bundle my clothes around myself, and start after Raffe into the cold woods.

Of course, I'm wiser this time about wandering about aimlessly – last time I'd ventured into these foreboding woods, I gotten lost and provoked a cherub attack. Simply thinking about the heavenly feline makes my scars ache. To avoid anything like another cherub or whatever else may live in this forest, I'll stick to the hasty path Raffe carved into the leaves.

"Raffe!" I call, voice still hushed as not to draw attention to myself. "Raffe!"

Twigs snap beneath my feet and leaves rustle with my stride – I wouldn't be very difficult to locate, even without the added vocal noise. But anything to gain that archangel's attention is good enough for me.

"Raffe!" I hiss. A histrionically imploring note enters my tone. "Raffe, please!"

"Don't you dare 'please' me," he snaps tenaciously, solidifying from the liquid shadows draping over a jagged boulder. His arms are crossed, his eyes glazed with fury. "You have no right to 'please' anything."

"Raffe!" Breathing a sigh of relief and releasing a silver breath as a salute to the moon, I start out towards him. "I thought you'd flown off."

Impervious glare intensifying, Raffe's growl grows just loud enough for it to reach my ears. "Give me one reason I shouldn't. Just one reason." Leaning forward to illuminate the pearly gleam of his bared teeth, Raffe snarls, "Give me a reason I should stick around, you treacherous, filthy monkey."

Stung more by the harsh bluntness in his tone than the words I've all heard before, I recoil, backing away before I'd even reached him. "Treacherous?" I bark, disbelief fueling a responding anger. "Give me one way that I've been even slightly treacherous! I've been loyal to you, Raffe!"

"Have you?" Raffe's toneless laugh is chilling. "Oh, I won't give you a reason. You know. You know what you're doing to me."

"No," I retort with a clenched voice, "I really don't. Mind elaborating upon my genius plan?"

Raffe stands up straight, stalking up until he is glaring me directly in the eyes.

"You," Raffe snarls spitefully, "are a demon to me, calling forth my lusts and desires and loves. You know this. You know what you do to me. But then you curl up alongside that monster, you side against me, you choose something other than me. You give me no other option, but you have no trouble showing that you are free, that I do not bind you the way you bind me."

"You're saying I'm a temptress?" I challenge, sizing him up hostilely. "That you don't have any effect on me in the slightest."

"Not from what I've seen!" Raffe bellows, stepping forward, even closer than before. "Socializing freely with that monster, allowing him to coddle your sister, even sleeping alongside him! You do not even seem to have a respect for my disgust!"

"Oh, for God's sake!" I cry, shaking my head. "You're a jealous pig, Raffe! A hedonist! Wake up and smell the cookies!"

"Do you know something I don't, Penryn?" His face looms before mine, voice dropping into a creepy softer volume. Blue eyes contain the inimical glaze of wrath and fury. "I advise sharing it with me. Quickly, before my patience wears thin."

"Bryon is my uncle!" I shout at him, baring my teeth.

Deathly silent follows this exclamation. Horror gleams in Raffe's eyes as he recoils.

"What?" he whispers, voice as fragile as a pane of glass.

Guiltily, I stare at the ground. "Bryon is my uncle. My father was his brother. That's what an uncle is."

Another silence follows, one in which I take an immense interest in my shoes and the mud on the toes of my right boot. My heartbeat flutters pathetically, spluttering between fear and dread like a one-winged butterfly.

"You're one of them," Raffe realizes hoarsely. There is tangible pain in his voice. "Lord Almighty, you're one of the sick bastards."

"Raffe," I plead, meeting his befuddled gaze with as innocent an expression I can manage, "it's still me. I'm still Penryn. Just… just not a Daughter of Man. Not fully."

"How long…?" Slowly retreating, his hand flying for a sword that's vacant, Raffe swallows. "How long have you known this?"

"Since a few days ago." Halfheartedly, I reach a hand in his direction, as if to halt his flight from me – but it hovers uncertainly, only half bridging the gap between him and me, before dropping back to my side. Agony twists my heart at the horror slowly shifting into disgust on his face. "Bryon told me in the Chaza. After… after I left with Scruffy."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Raffe demands, gnashing his teeth. Upon his own face, there is a turmoil of emotions – wrath, hate, anger, guilt, pity, reluctance, confusion. "Why didn't you tell me, Penryn?"

"Because I was scared." My own words promote new sources of fright to pollute my common sense, and it doesn't take long of my staring up at him and his shadow falling upon me before Raffe isn't the only one backing away. "Because I knew how brutal you could be. And now –" I swallow, clutching my arm with one hand, attempting to shrink into my surroundings, return to that warm, fuzzy cocoon Bryon provided me with. "Now, you tried to strangle Bryon. So I guess I'm still scared, maybe even more than before."

Again, Raffe falls quiet, though, this time, his boring gaze does not seem so blurred with confusion. Sharp intelligence cuts over my form, a fierce evaluation. My pulse stampedes as, one by one, the scythes slide from their sheathes, winking at me cruelly beneath the stars.

"Look at you," he marvels quietly, voice not emitting a trace of emotion. "Scanning the area for ways to escape me." The brief quiet that follows this is more of a thoughtful one. "All this time," he muses without amusement, "and you were a hated enemy." He exhales slowly, kneading two fingers into his forehead. "I wish you were a Daughter of Man. It would make this excruciating decision… so much easier."

"Bryon says that I don't have many qualities of a Nephilim," I admit begrudgingly, glancing once up at him. "That's got to amount for something. Right?"

"Hmm," Raffe disapproves. After another silence, he sighs quite loudly. "Well, alright. I'm going to sleep. I'll deal with it in the morning. G'night."

I start with surprise, scrunching my face at him. True to his word, Raffe first calmly clambers up the neighboring boulder to its rough top. He lays flat on his back, one hand strewn over his face to block the heaven's light. Stretching out his ebony black wings to their full glory, he allows them to droop lifelessly over the edges of the boulder.

"Wha – why aren't you going back to the camp?" I question, stepping forward.

"Don't know," he answers with a familiar tone of voice, a voice syrupy with arrogant laziness. "It could be the monster. Or that insufferable monkey. Or other unnamed individuals."

For the second time, I hesitate in my reply, unwilling to leave Raffe all by himself on the outskirts of our camp with Wives scurrying about the countryside. "But you're on watch. You have to stay on watch. That's why we have a watch system in the first place."

"Do we really need a wolf and a person on watch?" Raffe inquires with a dull grunt. "Let the mutt handle it."

"It's cold," I criticize, stepping even closer to him. "Your wings are going to freeze and catch frostbite and drop off, unfurled like that."

Raffe laughs tonelessly. "Good. About time I got rid of the damned things."

My hesitation to leave him by himself in the woods stretches into another silence. There is nothing binding him to our party now – not after I've revealed my bloodlines and I'm relatively safe beneath Bryon's wing. If I desert him now, there's no telling if he'll be here in the morning. I suppose eventually he'd have to stop by for Pooky Bear – but that wouldn't be until after he hacked off these phony wings in replacement for his own. His snowy wings are safely tucked amongst Hugo's supplies, although I can't envision Raffe having much difficulty clawing through the surplus of packs.

Making my decision, I grip the freezing surface of the rock with numb fingers, hooking them in little holes. Slowly and unsteadily, I scale its side, trying to avoid Raffe's wing and the razor sharp barbs as much as possible.

"Penryn," Raffe sighs wearily, "what are you doing?"

"Keeping you company," I inform him through gritted teeth. One hand smacks onto the top of the rock, groping about blindly for something to pull me up completely. "You'll get lonely, all by yourself. Besides, if you" – I swallow, and my voice grows quiet – "if you need Pooky Bear back, it'll be easier for you to retrieve it."

Raffe ponders this as I try to hook my fingers into a crevice in vain. "Go back to Bryon," he huffs. "I want to be lonely."

"Well, yeah," I grunt, wincing as my arm accidently catches on one of the scythes and spills crimson blood down my elbow, "if I go back, I'll have no idea where to go. With my sense of direction, I'd get lost, and then you'd have to be the Knight in Feathered Armor again. Save me from the Boogey Man, or whatever else is out there."

Raffe's warm, firm hand closes around mine. Effortlessly, he tugs me up to where he lies. Slowly, he retracts all of his barbs, creating a less hazardous environment for me. "You're going to freeze your face off," he chastises.

"Good." I grin cheekily at him, settling onto the stone's face. "About time I got rid of this damned thing."

Raffe rolls his eyes, moving his lips in the ghost of inaudible words. "Fine. Die. See if I care." And with that, he rolls over, taking his scythed wings with him – they fold neatly against his back, two shadowy curtains against his lush caramel skin, curtains guarding the rest of him from my sight or aggravation.

Hurling up a defensive barrier between Raffe and I, I answer callously, "It'll be the first thing I do this morning. You'll have to remind me, I'm awful at remembering things late at night. Do you have a notebook I can borrow?"

Raffe does not take the effort to sigh at my snide remark. "Good night, Penryn." It isn't merely a farewell as he descends into dreams – it's a conclusion, an abrupt halt to any form of communication between the two of us. That alone can be considered offensive, but his tone is sharp and imprudent, carrying the cadence of arrogance and the pitch of dislike.

Puffing out a long, annoyed breath, I roll until my back is facing him, cuddling up against the prodding stone as best I can. It numbs my cheek and sends barrages of chills up my neck with its bitter skin, frigid as the winter's heart itself. "Good night, Raffe," I grunt, struggling to keep my tone civil.

After my statement, the tense air keeps my senses vividly admiring the shadowed thickness of the woods and cool stone pillow with icy fingers reaching through my clothes to claw at my skin. But, eventually, my weary soul falters – some part of me wonders if the strange detachment I feel from my numbed limbs is normal. Most of me, however, only lusts to fall asleep.

The first shiver racks through my body, its arrival violent as it quakes down my spine, alarming after the sweet, dull nothingness of a sleepy mind. It doesn't distract me long from the evanescent thoughts still flourishing in my brain.

And so many things to think about! My sister and her harrowing metal fangs clacking with each gnash of her jaw, the building tension between my wise old uncle and Raffe, the promise of a Nephilim city so close and yet so far – even my mother's wellbeing reaches me that night lying atop that bitterly cold rock.

My father does, too.

As I lapse much deeper into sleep's nurturing arms, more complex thoughts happen upon me, thoughts my fatigued brain doesn't even dare attempt to solve – where is my father? Is it possible that Bryon's burning bush God truly does exist, and that my dad's in a better place? Or would he have gone to the place below? Does such a place as Hell exist? It must, for that's where Bay fled to. But if Hell exists, does Heaven? Or is Heaven a fantasy to keep those of us left here on Earth a whim of comfort as we slip into the world beyond? Maybe the entire theory of Heaven and Hell is flawed, and we do not truly have souls at all? But then why would Hugo discuss the ghosts of Jane's victims?

These thoughts initially distract me from the winter shaking my bones and rattling my teeth together ferociously. My teeth clip my tongue and graze the tender inside of my mouth, drawing blood and letting its nasty coppery taste mull about. Startled by my hands jerking about madly over the stone, I peel open my eyes, focusing my muddy gaze on the tremors racing through them with distant curiosity.

Huffing out a loud breath through my quivering teeth, I curl tighter on myself, slipping my palms beneath my shirt to the warm flesh hidden beneath my layers of clothing. Though my hands heat against my torso, it doesn't take me too long to realize that lying ice cold fingers against the soft, warm skin of my unprotected belly would've been a poor choice of action. Yanking them out and ignoring the spreading chill prickling along my ribs, I ball my hands into fists and slam them beneath my armpits.

The violent chatter of my teeth prevents any true venture into sleep to be made, so instead, I try to count the stars above me. My muddy vision makes even that difficult, with its jerky patterns and nonexistent clarity. Unwilling to face the truth of my deteriorating gaze, I swiftly shut my eyes and attempt to curl tighter in on myself.

Without even truly acknowledging the fact, I squirm slightly closer to Raffe, seeking out the warmth I sense him emitting over the rough stone.

My frigid back brushes his, flesh brushing for a split second.

His warmth vanishes almost instantly, Raffe shying from my cold touch.

Embarrassment would've sent a heated flush to my cheeks, if there was any heat to spare. Instead, I settle for huffing in shame through chattering teeth, sending a silver plume of breath to greet the stars for me.

"Penryn?" Raffe's weary voice is inquisitive. "Penryn, what's wrong?"

His voice alights a fire inside me, not one that can melt away the ice gnawing at my limbs, per se, but one that can be goaded higher and burnt as fuel. In response to his question, I whisper something unintelligible through rigid lips, something even I can't understand.

"Penryn?" Worry laces through his glorious voice. The worry concentrates as he lays a hand against my forearm, growing strangely feverish. "Penryn, you're cold as ice." His entire arm drapes over me. "Perhaps even colder."

"S-s-sorry," I stutter.

"Sorry," he mutters spitefully, both arms wrapping around me. "For what, you idiotic monkey? What do you have to be sorry for?" Expertly, he hooks me beneath the ribs, turning me in his arms until we look one another in the eyes once more. With my shaky gaze, everything about him quivers aside from the intense blue of his gorgeous eyes against mine.

"On second thought," Raffe considers as I move my frozen lips in a vain attempt to create words that may adequately describe my apologies, "don't tell me." Nestling me closer against his sauna-like warmth, curling a wing around me to guard against the cold like a Windbreaker jacket, he even attempts to warm me with his breath – it pours over my skin, hot and sour, warming the skin of my face to a marginal degree. Every inch of my flesh is against his, receiving its warmth.

Pressing myself against his heat, I whisper again, "Sorry."

Raffe sighs heavily, breaking the steady pattern of the breaths he'd been so carefully measuring. "For what, Penryn?" Nimbly removing one of his arms from its placement wrapped around my shoulders, he takes both of my fists in one massive hand, and guides them beneath his shirt to the flat plane of his muscular stomach. Though his intent is clearly not far from my strategy had been, to warm my fingers against the warmest areas of the body, my mind wanders to more creative things my hands could be doing beneath his shirt. It takes great mental restraint to do no more than cup the ridges of firm muscle.

Once more, his breath pours down the planes of my neck, billowing against my face. "What are you trying to apologize for, Penryn?"

"Binding you," I breathe, curling tighter into his chest to hide my shame. "Sorry. I didn't… didn't want to."

Raffe does not answer me, does not respond in any way. He doesn't stop breathing on me, doesn't pull out of his embrace or remove my shield against the wind, but he doesn't really extend any other offer. It comes to the point where the awkwardness forces me to reluctantly sift my hands from beneath his shirt.

"What are you doing?" Raffe upbraids in critical bemusement. "Those aren't anywhere near warm yet. Put them back, you're going to freeze to death."

Obediently, I obey, smiling frailly against his skin. Tingles of warmth leap up my spine, heat blossoming over my face in what I hope is a blush. I hope that he can't see it, that my face is hidden against his chest, but I dare not voice any concerns on the matter.

"You're not getting warm fast enough," Raffe frets. "It's the stone, isn't it? The cold stone. Here, I'll fix it."

His grip around me adjusts wholly, shifting to something more durable. I suppose I sound like a surprised cat as he lifts me from the stone's surface, tugging me onto his lap instead. A true blush flames my cheeks as Raffe gingerly places me on his stomach, positioning my head at his breast. Like the wrapping to a present, he curls both black wings around me, fending off wind and ice alike.

"Better?" Raffe murmurs into my hair, returning his muscular arms to their original position.

"Better," I whisper, blushing furiously against him.

Can we get a d'awww.

I tried to work in Hugo shouting at them to shut up. I really did. It's his thing – but no matter how many times I wrote and rewrote the argument, it always turned out awkward and bizarre if he had any input whatsoever.

In this chapter, I'd like to feature ChillyPeepPenguins! They're an amazing artist that's – would you believe it? – drawn fanart for this measly little fanfiction! You can find her work at .com… I suggest everyone should go check it out!

POLL: I haven't asked this question in a while, and it's been giving me nervous fits. How am I doing on characterization – especially those that aren't mine, but for those that are, too?

Ciao,

~wolfluvermh